


The Owl's Wisdom vs the Horse's Freedom

by penumbria



Series: Owl vs Horse [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Guide Thorin, M/M, Rough Trade, Sentinel Bilbo, Sentinel Fusion, Sentinel Senses, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Spirit Animals, Spirit Guides, Spirit World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 19:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbria/pseuds/penumbria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Shire, Guides are plentiful. Sentinels, on the other hand, are incredibly rare. And powerful. And lonely. In the Shire, Guides don't bond with Sentinels. It isn't proper. They provide community support but not personal. That is the hobbit way. Bilbo Baggins hates being a proper hobbit and wishes for many reasons that Fell Winter had never brought him online as the first hobbit Sentinel in several generations. Until a wizard brings a dwarf king and his company to Bilbo's front door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Guide Online

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Hobbit or the Sentinel. I make no money from this.
> 
> Thanks to my beta lanalucy. Thanks to Fanarts_series for the banner art.
> 
> Originally written for the Little Black Dress Rough Trade Challenge 2015.

            

 

** Chapter One **

 

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, was twenty-four years of age when the dragon Smaug attacked his home, the Lonely Mountain, within which lay the dwarven city of Erebor. He had witnessed the descent into gold madness of his grandfather, the king, and the warnings given to him by the elven king, Thranduil. He knew his history and lore and worried the elves were correct. Then on that day in 2770 TA, he discovered he was correct, and witnessed firsthand the wrath of a gold-mad dragon when it finds a hoard.

Thorin saw it attack, up close and personal as he led fellow dwarrows to the defense of the city. And as he was knocked aside by the drake and, for a brief while, partially buried under the rubble left in its wake, Thorin could suddenly feel its avarice and desire. He lay there, basking in the overwhelming emotions Smaug carried with him, until the dragon was out of sight.

As soon as the drake was gone, Thorin shook himself free of the near trance that had grasped him and dug himself out of the rubble. He stumbled to his feet, and as he made his way toward the treasury, where he knew he would find his grandfather, he was bombarded with emotions not his own.

Fear, agony, despair, grief, horror, terror, pain, and ahead of the incredibly young dwarf, the pull of greed, of avarice, of selfishness, that permeated the treasury, and the near overwhelming feeling of the dragon’s rapacious love of gold and treasure.

Thorin rescued his grandfather Thror, physically dragging the old dwarf from the piles of gold being shifted by Smaug, even as the king struggled to return to the hoard. But, instinctively, the young dwarf, though still very much a child by his people’s standards, knew what to do to gain the cooperation needed from the gold-mad king so he did not die, buried in the gold. He pushed with something inside of him recently set free and with this power in his voice, he spoke a single word, “ **_Come!_ ** ”

The power of that command overcame the mind, and the madness within it, of the dwarven king and he was docile as he allowed his grandson to lead him to safety. While on the way to the main gates, leaving the dragon behind, Thorin set off signals to echo deep into the mountain, alerting the miners and others there of the danger so they could head to whatever safety they could find through the tunnels and exits of the mountain.

When Thorin emerged into the daylight of plain before the mountain, he was nearly sent to his knees by the flood of emotions from so many dwarrow refugees. They surged toward him and the king, physically and mentally. Thorin was battered and bruised but again instinct came to his aid.

The Guide deep inside, so recently awakened and freed of the walls that had held it, rose and pushed out with its power. Thorin spoke, his powerful Voice rolling over his people, “ **_Be calm. The dragon is fully occupied with the treasure. We must away from here before he regains interest in the world outside the mountain. Those who are uninjured, care for those who need aid. We must make our way to the Greenwood. Be as swift as possible, but careful and safe. Let no one be left behind for the drake to find._ ** ”

As the dwarrows obeyed the young prince, his father and several of the king’s advisors came to help the young dwarf with his grandfather, freeing him to aid others where he could. And the oh-so-young, oh-so-new Guide did just that. He bandaged wounds, helped to reunite families, comforted terrified children, and discovered his greatest and most important duty: forty-six newly awakened Sentinels and the lack of any other Guides.

Thorin knew what Sentinels and Guides were, of course. He had even been starting to realize he was now a Guide. But he had never met either one before. The dwarven Sentinels tended to be deep miners, using their senses to find gold and silver and mithril and other useful minerals. Their Guides worked alongside them deep in the furthest mines of the mountain.

But not a single one of the Sentinels surrounding him on the plains beyond the ruined human city of Dale were miners. They were craftsmen, merchants, servants, and soldiers. Thorin stretched himself out and with a wrench of great effort for the exhausted youngster, he enclosed the Sentinels in a mental shield which buffered the overwhelming input to their senses and calmed them from the feral state most of them were on the verge of.

For almost two full days, Thorin kept the shield up, until the Sentinels could work on their own shields and keep their senses low. And as he allowed the shield to fall, his body followed after it, into the unconsciousness that had increasingly beckoned since the escape from Erebor.

Though his body craved sleep, Thorin’s Gifts only allowed him to remain in that resting state for three hours before waking him to one of the Sentinels in a crisis. The dwarf had zoned when he had looked back at the mountain. He had lost himself in the sight of the lone peak and Thorin was the only one who could reach him.

Once awake, Thorin would not allow himself the luxury of further sleep. The refugees were nearly to the edge of the Greenwood and he knew the elves would be there, ready to aid them, as per their treaties.

As Thorin stumbled forward, searching for his father and grandfather in the large group of shambling dwarrows, he saw a glint upon a nearby hill. He shaded his eyes and saw an army, an army of elves. For the first time since he’d sighted the dragon, the youngling smiled. He raised his arm, beckoning for their aid. The unmistakable sight of King Thranduil on his elk coming to the front of the army cheered Thorin.

Thorin reached out with his Gift, desperate to get the elven king’s attention, and regretted it immediately. His internal shields were open and as he connected with the golden-haired king on his majestic mount, Thorin was overcome with waves of terror and remembered pain and sorrow. Then, as Thranduil met Thorin’s eyes across the distance, he felt the deep sense of protectiveness within the elf. He watched as the head of the elk was turned away and the king led his army back down the hill, away from the homeless and battered dwarrow. And as he left, a spear of deep guilt flooded down the link Thorin had inadvertently forged.

Thorin fell to his knees as he realized the elves would not live up to their obligations. Thranduil was abandoning the dwarves, formerly of Erebor, to whatever fate they might find in their new, wandering world.

 

* * *

 

_**Frerin** _

* * *

 

The years passed and Thorin learned to have full conscious control over his Gifts. He watched as each of the Sentinels that had come online with the attack by Smaug on Erebor found their Guides, as the refugees wandered and they bonded, leaving him alone. New Sentinels came online as some of the others stayed behind with their newfound Guides. Or as they reached an age of maturity.

Then his grandfather, still deep in the gold sickness that he had suffered for so long, led an attack on the ancestral mountain home of the Durin line, Moria. He was slaughtered by the orc, Azog, and the dwarves went to war against the orcs. The war lasted for nine years and wakened the Gifts of many Sentinels. Some found bonds, while others relied on Thorin and the small handful of unbonded Guides like him in the settlement.

One of the newly awakened Sentinels, called to awareness by the death of King Thror, was Thorin’s younger brother, Frerin. They were close in age and before the fall of Erebor had been somewhat close in emotion. After the Wandering Years began and Thorin came online, however, Frerin began to resent his older brother and the way so many adults looked to him over even King Thror or their father, Prince Thrain.

Thorin felt Frerin’s jealousy and resentment, the emotions stabbing him, as his shields were always thinner around those his Guide thought he should be able to trust: his family, his brother, his little sister, Dis, his cousins, Dwalin and Balin, Oin and Gloin. So, though a very strong Guide, Thorin was still a very young dwarf in the way his people considered things, and rather than confront his brother and try to work things out, he drew away from him, causing more resentment and widening, not bridging, the gap formed when Thorin had come online.

Until he felt Frerin come online as a Sentinel when word came of the fate of Thror. Thorin felt drawn to help him, compelled to assist. He knew Frerin was not _his_ Sentinel, but he was something. Possibly due to their close blood relation, or possibly just as Mahal’s way of helping the brothers to bridge the gap in their relationship.

Thorin and Frerin spent the years of the war working together, as Frerin never found his One True Guide. The younger dwarf quickly came to rely on his older brother and understand the burden Thorin had shouldered, and his jealousy and resentment fell away within months, leaving behind pride, contentment, and true, deep, brotherly love.

Then came the penultimate battle of the nine year war before the East Gate of Moria, at Azanulbizar. And it was a fierce and bloody battle, indeed. Many fell on both sides, including nearly the entire group of Sentinels who had come online since the fall of their home, chief among them Frerin. Thorin tried to get to him, to save him, but was unable to manage and could only watch in horror as his brother, only forty-eight years of age, fell to an orc’s blade.

In the end, none of the bonded Sentinel and Guide pairs survived, and only three of the twenty-six unbonded Sentinels made it through the battle relatively intact. Thorin was the only unbonded Guide to do so. And it had been a close run thing, as he nearly lost his head to the orc lord Azog, the killer of his grandfather, who had sworn to end the Durin line. His defense of himself and temporary defeat of the orc led to his being given a secondary name, Oakenshield and he took the branch that had saved his life and made it into an arm guard shield which he carried from that point on. And as for Azog, Thorin’s cousin, Dain, slew him, taking his head as Azog had taken former King Thror’s to start the bloody decade.

The dwarves won the war, chasing the orcs back into their holes, but the final battle at Azanulbizar had been so bloody and costly even for them, they did not have the strength of numbers to retake Moria and they were forced to resume their wandering, searching for a new home even as they grieved for their losses.

Finally, when Thorin was fifty-six, in the year 2802 TA, the wandering dwarves settled in the Blue Mountains and began to eke out a living there, led by King Thrain II. It was a hard existence and many dwarves had to continue wandering as blacksmiths and jewelers and tinkers to make enough money for their families to live. Thorin, too, did his part, becoming a wandering blacksmith in the lands of Men, always hoping to one day find the other part of him, _his_ Sentinel.

As time passed, Thorin despaired. He feared the One meant for him had perished before they could meet, in the attack on Erebor or in the War of Orcs and Dwarves. If his One hadn’t come online before dying, Thorin would have never felt the draw.

Thorin wandered, working, resenting the Men who treated him as a lowly servant or worse, sending most of his earnings back to the Blue Mountains to sustain his sister and father. Then in 2840, Thrain began to fall into madness, different from Thror’s obsession and yet, not so far it was unrecognizable to those who saw him. He dwelt unceasingly upon the lost treasure of Erebor and began wandering, attempting to find a way to get to it. At first, he would send word of his progress, but within five years, reports trickled to nothing. No one heard from him or of him again.

Thorin returned to the Blue Mountains and took up the mantle of caring for his people, the duty his father and grandfather had so badly failed at. He watched his sister, Dis, be courted by her One and welcomed his sister-sons into the world as they were born. He grieved with her when her husband was lost in a mining accident. He watched the two dwarflings, Kili and Fili, grow, and lost hope of ever finding his Sentinel. He named Fili his heir.


	2. Sentinel Online

 

**Chapter Two  
**

  

Far to the west of the Lonely Mountain and the lost dwarven city of Erebor and just east of Ered Luin and the Blue Mountains, where had settled the refugees from the attack of the dragon Smaug, lay a green and fertile land called The Shire. The Shire was home to the smallest of the races of Arda, who called themselves hobbits. Many of the other races referred to these tiny creatures as halflings, but to call a hobbit this to his face was a great insult (even if not meant as one by the speaker), for as any hobbit could tell you, they were not _half_ of anything!

Hobbits lived a calm and peaceful existence, farming the land and growing luxurious gardens around their smials, tiny homes built into the hills. Being such a peaceful race, Sentinels and Guides were different among hobbits.

Which is not to say that there _were_ no Sentinels among the hobbits. Indeed the deeds of the last hobbit Sentinel before the piece of our story which takes place in the Shire begins was rather famous, so well known in fact he spawned an urban legend even among the race of Men: his actions in defeating an orc lord were the origins of the game of golf. It was an amusing anecdote, often fondly recounted by Gandalf the Grey to others, as he had known the hobbit, Bandobras Took, later to be called “Bullroarer.”

But, Bullroarer Took’s most famous actions occurred in 2747 TA. And our story here in the Shire will concentrate on a hobbit who was not born until 2890 TA, some one hundred forty-three years later. In all that time, not a single hobbit came online as a Sentinel. There was simply a dearth of the sorts of events and happenings that led to many Sentinels coming online so any who had that capacity within them remained unawakened to it.

Until the winter of 2911 to 2912 TA, that is. This particular winter was an incredibly harsh one by any standards. The snows fell deep and thick and the temperatures plummeted incredibly low. They were so low, in fact, that the Brandywine River, a natural protection of the Shire from the enemies and wild animals inhabiting the surrounding area, froze solid. The winter was even harsher north of the Shire and many small animals froze or starved, which led the predators of the area (mostly wolves) to the south, right across the usually inaccessible river into the Shire.

The hobbits were unprepared for such an assault - by either the animals or the elements. Before the full magnitude of the problem was realized, a number of hobbits had been killed by the packs of invading wolves. Others began to starve to death when their stores ran low and they could not venture out to get more due to fear of the wolves and the cold. Others became ill as they ran out of firewood to heat their smials, and could not risk the wooded area to find more.

One such family was the Baggins of Bag End. This hobbit family was actually unusually small for a hobbit family, consisting of only the homeowner, Bungo Baggins, his wife, Belladonna Baggins nee Took, and their only child, Bilbo Baggins. Bungo had become ill when the food and wood stores of Bag End had run low and in an attempt to save his life, Belladonna and Bilbo had ventured out toward her family’s home where they hoped to find food.

It would be a long and treacherous journey for the hobbits, as her family lived some distance away. When other families who lived nearby saw they were venturing out, they tagged along, hoping that in numbers there would be strength and protection.

But the wolves were starving and the large group of hobbits simply appeared to be a buffet to them rather than the deterrent they had planned and hoped to be. The group of fifteen hobbits from nine different families in Hobbiton were attacked less than ten minutes from their destination when their guard was down and their final stop in sight.

Belladonna Baggins was a fierce hobbit, unusual in that she had gone on an adventure when still a young hobbit. She had actually ventured beyond the bounds of the Shire. It had been scandalous at the time but it had given her skills most other hobbits lacked. When the wolves attacked, Belladonna took hold of the knife she had brought with her and attacked back, killing two of the wolves before a third and fourth brought her down.

Upon seeing his mother fall beneath the claws and jaws of the wolves, something broke free in Bilbo and his Sentinel senses came online in a feral rage. He took down the two wolves who had felled his mother with his bare hands and a rock from the ground. He then took down the other six wolves in the pack with his mother’s knife.

The hobbits around him were grateful and horrified at the same time. They were glad to be alive, with only the single casualty, but they feared Bilbo. They all knew the tales. They understood at once what Bilbo had become. But they didn’t like it. Hobbits who were Sentinels were good for the moment they were needed but they weren’t respectable. They were different and odd.

Bilbo led his neighbors to Took Hall and then led them back home once they had the food and wood they needed, using his senses to find the dangers lurking around the party of Bounders who accompanied them. When he returned to Bag End, it was to find his father had been unable to hold out against his illness and Bilbo was now an orphan.

During the remainder of Fell Winter, Bilbo used his senses to keep his fellow hobbits safe from the wild animals and the weather. He could hear when the wolves were near and he could smell the coming of more snow or feel the approaching plummet of a cold wind before others.

Bilbo stretched his senses to the fullest, but never zoned, because of the peculiar nature of the vast majority of hobbits. While hobbit Sentinels were rare in the extreme, hobbits with Guide Gifts were normal. Indeed, hobbits were expected to have them. Not the Voice, really, as again, it was rarely needed, but the empathy and ability to be one with the spirit. It was normal to see various spirit animals wandering around the Shire, especially during spring planting and fall harvest times. In hobbits, Guide Gifts focused on the earth and its bounty, rather than on people.

Due to the overabundance of Guides within the Shire, Bilbo was able to keep sane, though he knew he had no hope of a one-on-one relationship with a Guide. They buffered him in exchange for his help but it was incredibly improper to bond with a Sentinel. There was no chance of a major zone anywhere in the Shire, not even in Bree. But once he left the land of the hobbits, Bilbo, so accustomed to the constant buffer and shielding, would risk a fatal zoneout within days, if not hours.

So, Bilbo protected his people the best he could once Fell Winter had passed, surrounded by Guides but always alone aside from his owl, his spirit guide, who was constantly by his side, either perched on a chair or at most on the fence of the smial. It was a lonely existence, but Bilbo decided within a few years that he preferred the death of his youthful dreams of having an adventure like his mother’s, to the death of his mind and body such an adventure would now cause due to the lack of a Guide to travel with him.


	3. Meeting a Wizard and a Gaggle of Dwarves

**Zirandas**

* * *

 

** Chapter Three **

Bilbo Baggins sat on the bench in his front garden, the smoke from his pipe swirling around his head. The pipeweed Bilbo used was actually one specially made for him and had a dulling effect on his senses. It didn’t turn them off at all but helped him separate himself from the influx of information he constantly received. The other hobbits provided it for him to protect their privacy, so he wouldn’t hear, see, smell, taste, or feel things he shouldn’t be able to if he were a  _ normal _ hobbit. Bilbo smoked it regularly because without it he  _ did  _ learn things he wishes he hadn’t, like the fact that Polo Baggins, his cousin, while married to a lovely hobbit lass, actually pined for and wrote and recited love poetry to Hugo Boffin who was married to Bilbo’s Aunt Donnamira, who smoked a rather strong form of pipeweed and liked to walk around her garden at night without clothes on. 

To avoid learning such secrets about his neighbors and family, he smoked at least five times a day. On the worst days, he barely let his pipe go out before relighting it. This day was not a  _ bad  _ day nor a particularly  _ good  _ one either. This was Bilbo’s second pipe of the day, as he  _ always _ had a pipe with his first breakfast. 

Bilbo watched the smoke rings curl up and blow in the light breeze, smiling when his spirit guide, his lovely owl, whom he had named Zirandas, took flight from the roof of his smial and flew through the rings as Bilbo puffed them out. It was one of the horned owl’s favorite pastimes, and it had helped Bilbo to hone his aim and perfect his breathing. The best smoke rings, the largest and steadiest, were formed when Bilbo used his meditation breathing exercises to form them. And so the game brought joy, contentment, and pride to both the Sentinel and his spirit guide.

After fifteen minutes of this game, Bilbo’s pipe was running low and Zirandas perched on the fence encircling Bag End and its garden. Bilbo sat back and simply puffed in a not so fancy and precise way on the last remnants of his pipeweed. He closed his eyes and smiled in light happiness.  _ Perhaps this was going to be a good day after all _ , he mused.

His peace was interrupted by a cleared throat. He choked a bit on the bit of smoke in his mouth as he opened his eyes and beheld a Man. He was a tall Man, dressed entirely in grey, with a large, pointy, grey hat on his grey hair and leaning on a tall wooden staff. Bilbo smiled, and greeted the man, “Good morning!”

The man huffed at him, leaning forward on his staff, and spoke, “What do you mean?” he asked the hobbit. “Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

Bilbo waved his pipe as he replied to the perplexing question. “All of them at once.” Bilbo grinned lightly, “and a very fine morning for a pipe of tobacco out of doors, into the bargain. Can I help you?”

The grey man spoke low and slow, “That remains to be seen.” He cocked his head to the side and peered down at the hobbit on the bench. “I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure.” The man’s head tilted back and his eyebrow rose. 

Bilbo blinked at the man in shock. An adventure. Oh, how he had once longed to leave the Shire and see the elves and the wider world as his mother had, a dream now long lost to him. Bilbo was overcome with a wave of anger at the unknowing cruelty this man was displaying. 

“An adventure?!? I don’t imagine anyone west of Bree,” he pointed dramatically toward the far off town with his pipe, “would have any interest in adventures.” Bilbo’s lip curled into a sneer, anger at dead hopes filling his mind. “Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things,” he continued as he rose to his feet and walked to his mailbox, retrieving the mail that had been delivered before he had taken his seat to smoke his pipe this morning. And right next to Zirandas, the true reason he had headed in that direction. As Bilbo turned back to the tall man, the owl took advantage of the screen Bilbo’s back provided and hopped from his perch on the fencepost to land at Bilbo’s feet, rubbing his head in comfort on the back of Bilbo’s leg, his actions hidden from the man in grey by Bilbo’s body and the fence.

Bilbo continued his tirade, though in a calmer tone, “Make you late for dinner.” Bilbo looked through his mail, ignoring the man, or at least pretending to, as he puffed once more on his pipe, only to find it had finally gone out. He turned his back to the mailbox and fence gate, nodding once, “Good morning.” 

As Bilbo climbed the steps toward his front door, the man spoke again. “To think that I would have lived to be ‘Good morning-ed’ by Belladonna Took’s son as if I were selling buttons at the door.”

Bilbo turned back to the man in confusion, “I beg your pardon?”

The man walked along the outside of the fence to come even with Bilbo once more. “You’ve changed, and not entirely for the better, Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo cocked his head to the side and reached out with his senses, trying to recall the sound or scent of the man who spoke to him so familiarly, “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

The man took a breath and let it out again, “You know my name, although you don’t know that I belong to it. I’m Gandalf and Gandalf means,” the man’s mouth moved as he tried to come up with an ending to the sentence, “me,” he finally settled on.

Bilbo thought for a moment and finally recognized a scent that clung to the man’s - Gandalf’s – cloak. “Not Gandalf the wandering wizard, who made such excellent fireworks! Old Took used to have them on Midsummer’s Eve.” The smell of the smoke and sulfur was actually quite strong around the man, and did bring up lovely memories of childhood wonder, but Bilbo was still quite upset over the earlier part of the conversation and so allowed his snark to rein free. “I had no idea you were still in business.”

The smile that had lit the man’s face as Bilbo had complimented his fireworks fled his face at the last remark. “And where else should I be?”

Bilbo simply looked at the wizard with a little grin tilting his mouth, glad to have upset the man who had woken such fierce longing and sorrow within him. 

The man sighed and smiled lightly, “I’m glad you remember something about me,” his mouth twists in a sour grin once more, “even if it is my fireworks.” He nodded decisively, “Well, that’s decided. It’ll be very good for you. And most amusing for me. I shall inform the others.” 

Bilbo looked at him in horror, “Inform the - no, no, no, no!” Bilbo turned and hurried to his front door, away from the temptation the wizard brought with him. “We do not want any adventures,  _ here! _ No thank you, not today, no. I suggest you try Over the Hill, or Across the Water.” Bilbo waved his pipe about, opening his door and allowing Zirandas to flit inside as he turned back to face Gandalf once more. “Good morning.”

And with that, Bilbo entered Bag End, closed the door behind him and sank to the floor with his back pressed against the green painted wood. Zirandas climbed into his lap and rubbed his head against Bilbo’s chest as the hobbit raised his hand to scratch at the owl’s tufts.

Bilbo leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his spirit animal, buried his head in the feathers and wept, wishing so much that he was normal, with regular senses. That he could take the wizard up on his offer. That he could leave the Shire without paying for it with his very life.

* * *

Bilbo raised his head from its spot buried in Zirandas’ feathers, his eyes red and irritated and his nose stuffed from his lengthy bout of self pity. The owl raised its own head and met his gaze calmly, tilting its head from one side to the other before bobbing it up and down. Having been graced with Zirandas’ presence for over twenty years, Bilbo was easily able to decipher this strange looking behavior. 

He smiled at his good friend in agreement. “You’re right, Zir. I need to center myself or this will not only turn out to be a bad day but a bad week, as well.” Bilbo rose from his spot on the floor, leaning against his front door and walked stiffly to his mediation room. His legs protested harshly and he stumbled along as he walked, his muscles coming back to life as the blood flow returned to his extremities and caused pain rather than the earlier numbness. 

The meditation room was a small room that might appear to some to be a closet of some sort. It was completely enclosed by wood, with no windows and only the single door. The floor was padded with thick carpet, and obviously something else as well, to go by the feel of the springiness under the feet. The walls were all dark wood but if one were to knock on them, the sound would be incredibly muffled as in actuality the thin looking walls were very thick indeed. The outermost, visible layer of wood was backed by a layer of hard packed dirt and then another layer of wood, followed by another layer of dirt and so on. In total each wall was made up of twelve of these layers and was thicker than two hands spread out, from wrist to fingertip, one beyond the other. Even the door was made of these layers and when it was closed, the room was almost entirely soundproof, even for a Sentinel. 

The wood had been treated with a special resin that kept it from rotting and kept out odors, absorbing and neutralizing them. The wood was uniform and the lamps in the room were steady and designed to never flicker and they were evenly spaced so as not to throw uneven shadows around the room.

Basically, it was a perfect isolation room for a Sentinel (or a Guide) who required peace from the outside world. With but a few small alterations, the room could easily double as a bonding suite if it was required, though of course, among hobbits that was not the done thing. Every town in the Shire had over a dozen of these rooms, though very few private homes had one; they were mostly in inns, pubs, and public buildings. Bag End was large enough but the room had only been constructed after Bilbo came online. He had quickly realized even with all of Hobbiton shielding him, he would sometimes require more than they could provide. And a public meditation room would be too crowded with leftover scents from the previous users and other things to distract a Sentinel like Bilbo.

After a morning like this one had become, he had a great need of centering or his sense would be out of whack; he would get headaches and his control would waver greatly, allowing him to hear all the way to Tuckborough at times and at others, unable to even hear his own heartbeat. If he had been bonded to a Guide, this was a situation where they would renew their bond but as hobbits didn’t do that, Bilbo had to work out his own way.

The way he, with Zirandas’ help, had come up with, was that he would spend an hour (or more depending on the depth of the problem) meditating in the quiet room. Zirandas would watch over his physical body and their spirits would meet in the spirit zone, the bright blue garden in one’s mind. 

The spirit zone was a lovely place and many hobbits visited it regularly with their animal guides. It helped them to renew their connection to the earth and feel what it needed. For Bilbo, it also helped to provide balance he would normally find with his own singular Guide (if he weren’t a hobbit). The peace of the spirit zone would allow him to shore up his wavering control and suppress the emotions causing the problem. 

The suppression was not a bad thing. He didn’t hide from the stress. Bilbo would face it and embrace it, understanding it before pushing it away, rather than dwelling on it. It was a healthy thing for him to do, at least for a hobbit who didn’t have a Guide who could or would give him personal attention. It would not be such a good thing for a Sentinel of the race of dwarves or Men to do, but they had other options that just weren’t available to poor Bilbo.

Bilbo settled in his meditation room and reclined against the wall, his legs stretched out and his hands resting on his belly. Zirandas settled at his head and waited for him to find his path. Bilbo closed his eyes and turned his attention and his senses inward. For a Sentinel this was never a safe thing to do, particularly for a Sentinel without a Guide. But thanks to the assistance of Zirandas and the overall feel of the Shire due to the nature of hobbit Guides, Bilbo was safer than any other Sentinel in such a position would be.

After a few minutes of breathing in rhythm and focusing his mind, he slipped from the world of material things and into the zone of spirits. He opened his eyes (or so it seemed to him) and glanced around, taking in and appreciating the deep beauty of the garden. The blue light soothed his wounded heart and he took comfort from the flowers as he wandered the paths of the garden. Zirandas soared overhead and Bilbo tipped his head back to watch his old friend enjoy being in what was his home. Bilbo often felt guilty that he required his spirit animal’s presence so often. But as a hobbit Sentinel, without the comforting and grounding that his owl provided, he would be lost, even with the other hobbits around. 

The other hobbits were wary of him, always. They shied away and rarely touched him, even to shake his hand. The merchants at the market wouldn’t even take his money directly from him. Bilbo would lay it on a plate and they would return any change the same way. To put it succinctly, Bilbo Baggins was utterly touch starved and his connection to his owl spirit animal was the only touch he got, often for months at a time.

Now, he watched the owl soar above the garden and smiled; he could feel the pleasure Zirandas found in the action. Being here with only Zirandas present was a deeply calming experience for Bilbo. He could feel the other's emotions through the bond which was so much stronger there in the garden. It helped him to deal with his own emotions.

Suddenly, Zirandas swooped down into a dive around the side of a hill and Bilbo heard him let out a deep hoot. This wasn’t unusual when they were in the spirit zone, so Bilbo thought nothing of it - except this time there was an answering sound Bilbo could have sworn was a whinny. 

And as he watched the hill hiding his companion, he saw a most odd sight: over the crest came a head - long, with tall ears, though they weren’t large for the head - and a mane. And then the neck and body and legs appeared and Bilbo realized it must indeed have been a whinny he had heard, as a horse was approaching.

Bilbo had never, ever, ever in the all of the times he had visited the spirit zone with Zirandas, seen another being here, not a hobbit, a Man, an elf, a dwarf, an animal or bug, and certainly not a horse! He was confused and yet he found himself climbing the small hill, drawn to the large, majestic creature. He knew it wouldn’t hurt him, that it wanted to see him, that it had been looking for him. He didn’t know how he knew but he knew he was correct in what he knew. 

As he reached the horse, Zirandas appeared and landed on the horse’s bare back, perching lightly. Bilbo smiled at the odd sight and reached out without a single instant of hesitation to lay his hand on the horse’s long nose. As he made contact, Bilbo shuddered in overwhelming delight, flooded with peace, happiness, utter, bewildering, incandescent joy. He had no idea how long he stood there, connected to the horse but when he finally opened his eyes, he had left the spirit zone and was back in Bag End, confused but still resonating with the deep, abiding joy he had felt from the horse when they touched.

* * *

  
  
**The Dwarves**

* * *

 

Bilbo was still feeling the euphoria from the connection he’d made in the spirit garden hours later as he made his dinner. But increasingly he was also feeling anxious and jittery. And oddly, the sensation was rising and falling; he would be very on edge and then the feeling would fade, only to loop back up gradually. It was baffling.

Bilbo settled at his dining table, his plate of fish and vegetables in front of him. He heard his neighbor Otho Proudfoot stumbling by, drunk and mumbling to himself about tomatoes and potatoes and hairy carrots, on his way home from the pub. Bilbo chuckled under his breath and tucked his napkin into his collar to keep his nightclothes tidy.

Before he could take a single bite, he cocked his head to the side. He heard someone opening his gate. That was odd. Hobbits did not go visiting at dinner time unless they were invited to partake ahead of time at a host’s table. Dinner invitations were very formal things and while Bilbo was rarely invited (due to his being, as a Sentinel, not quite respectable), he knew he hadn’t invited anyone over to his home. 

The last time he had hosted a dinner event had been four years before, and it had ended when he had physically stopped Lobelia Sackville-Baggins from stealing his mother’s silver spoons. He had heard her slip them down her bodice and had fished them back out again when she denied it.

Bilbo thought maybe he had misheard, but then the doorbell rang. Bilbo got up from his dinner, still perplexed, and made his way to the front door.

The hobbit swung open the door and stared in bewilderment at the sight that met his eyes. A tall dwarf stood on his threshold, bald headed, tattooed, and wrapped in a heavy cloak. The dwarf bowed slightly and introduced himself, “Dwalin, at your service.”

Bilbo was confused and flustered. This dwarf was totally unfamiliar to him. Any dwarf was totally unfamiliar to him and he couldn’t understand why one would knock on his door. But he tried to be as respectable a hobbit as he could, setting aside his Sentinel abilities, which made total respectability an impossibility, and as he belted his night robe, he stammered back, “Bilbo Baggins at yours.” The dwarf moved forward across the threshold, and though he knew the answer, Bilbo couldn’t help but ask, “Do we know each other?” wondering if perhaps, like the wizard that morning, this was someone who had known him as a faunt through his mother.

The dwarf loomed over him and gave him a very odd look, before replying, “No,” and continuing further into Bag End.

Normally, Bilbo would have stopped such an invasion of his home but as the dwarf had come close, Bilbo had breathed in, and something had caught his attention. The bald dwarf smelled of campfire, and horse, and iron, and leather, but beyond that was a strong, nearly overpowering scent Bilbo couldn’t quite identify. He was drawn to it, though. It was a lovely scent, and reminded Bilbo of his time in the spirit garden. But it wasn’t at all floral. It was heady and deep and it distracted him and made him feel more welcoming to this stranger than he would otherwise have been. 

The dwarf took off his cloak as he looked around Bag End, “Which way, laddie? Is it down here?”

“I-is what down where?”

The dwarf turned back to the bewildered hobbit and threw his cloak at him. “Supper. He said there’d be food, and lots of it.”

Bilbo closed the door and hurried after the strange, invading dwarf. He opened his mouth to protest this idea and then heard the growling stomach of the dwarf as the smell of Bilbo’s dinner reached him. Bilbo would never turn someone away hungry. It just wasn’t in him, so he showed the dwarf to a seat at the table and allowed him to eat the dinner which sat there.

As he watched his supper disappearing into the gaping maw of the stranger, Bilbo extended his senses. He could still smell that wonderful smell clinging to the dwarf at his table but he knew it was not coming  _ from _ him. It had been transferred to his clothing and person, like the smell of pony and smoke had. 

Bilbo squirmed in his seat against the wall as his nerves increased again, as they had done for hours. It was starting to become  _ truly  _ annoying to the poor hobbit. He knew something was happening but had no idea what. 

Zirandas was no help. He was simply perched on a chair in the corner of the hall with his head under his wing. He appeared to be sleeping, but Bilbo knew better. The blasted owl was allowing him to live his own life and figure things out on his own so he could grow as a person and a Sentinel. It was infuriating, but truthfully, Bilbo did prefer it to being led around like a faunt. He knew if danger threatened, Zirandas would be there to help him and warn him. Which was another reason he trusted the dwarf.

Bilbo listened to the sounds of the smial, and heard nothing he wouldn’t expect. Two heartbeats, breathing, chewing, swallowing, digesting, the sounds of the dwarf eating as Bilbo watched, basically. So, he extended his ears further, outside the smial to the garden and the lane beyond. Otho Proudfoot was long gone (as was much of Bilbo’s dinner) and he didn’t expect to hear much beyond bugs and animal sounds, most hobbits being in their smials having their own dinners at his hour.

But Bilbo was surprised and not entirely happy to hear something coming up the lane toward his garden gate. He listened harder and extended his sense of smell to go along with it. (It might have been more traditional to add sight to hearing for a Sentinel but Bilbo had found years ago that doing such a thing without an additional sense sent first would cause him to begin to zone.) The scents of pony (though slightly different from his current guest’s pony scent), leather, iron, and parchment and ink made the way up the lane and opened his garden gate. 

Bilbo rose to his feet in anticipation of the new guest and the dwarf at this table looked over his shoulder at the hobbit, eyes narrowed. “Mmmm. … Very good, this. Any more?”

Bilbo nodded and grabbed a bowl of rolls from the alcove nearby, slipping one into his night robe pocket for himself, for later, already fearing his food would not go into his own belly tonight but into this dwarf and the other (he assumed) dwarf about to knock on his door. But good manners ingrained in the hobbit since long before his parents’ deaths came to the fore, “Help yourself. Mmmm. It’s just that, um, I wasn’t expecting company.” Bilbo tried to explain what he felt was his lack of hospitality.

And with that, as fate decreed, the front door bell rang again. And so Bilbo trotted off to answer it, opening it to see a shorter, heavyset dwarf, with a long white beard and white hair. The dwarf smiled at him and spoke, “Balin, at your service.” He bowed deeply with a flourish.

Bilbo was still confused but his senses were still extended and he could smell no deception or fear or ill intent from this new dwarf. But he did smell a hint of that unidentified scent the first dwarf had brought with him. “Good evening.”

The dwarf looked up at the sky and nodded, “Yes, yes it is, though I think it might rain later. Am I late?” he inquired as he entered Bag End.

Bilbo sighed. “Late for what?” He hoped this dwarf would explain what they were doing here. And possibly what that scent was and where it came from. 

But before he could get a reply, the white-haired dwarf spied the bald dwarf and exchanged greetings, allowing Bilbo to discover they were brothers and had known they would meet here. He watched as the two dwarfs raided his pantry, the bald one throwing his expensive blue cheese on the floor. He desperately wanted to protect his home and stop them, but he couldn’t bring himself to berate them. 

His senses were telling him these two dwarfs were very important to him, though he had no idea why, and he could guess from little cues in their clothing and the way they looked at his fully stocked pantry, it had been some time since they had eaten as well as hobbits did every day. And so Bilbo didn’t confront them or try to keep them from raiding his pantry. But he did keep his senses open.

And so Bilbo heard and smelled more visitors hurrying up the lane, likely dwarfs from the smells they shared with the two current guests. He closed his eyes, and a small smile graced his lips as he turned toward the door, hearing the harsh whispers exchanged between the two.

“I’ll ring the bell.”

“No, I’ll ring the bell. I’m the eldest.”

“I’m on the side with the bell, I’ll ring it.”

There was a small scuffling sound and then, “Now I am. And I’ll start the introductions. Behave and act like good dwarfs.”

“You’re the one pushing me around, Fi.”

“No one can see, Ki. And you need to remember your manners, Ma always tells you that, more than she tells me that, so I’m doing her job since she isn’t here.”

Bilbo walked toward the door and as the bell finally rang, he swung it open. He hummed under his breath as he took in the sight of the two much younger dwarfs on his doorstep. On the left was a blond with his hair and beard in multiple braids. On the right was a brunet with long free-flowing hair on his head, and a scruffy face like a Man who hadn’t shaved in a week.

The blond began, “Fili.”

And the brunet continued, “And Kili.”

And then, obviously rehearsed, in chorus the two young dwarfs chanted, “At your service.” And they bowed deeply together.

When they straightened, the dark-haired dwarf smiled broadly. “You must be Mr. Boggins.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes in exasperation, increasingly filled with nervous energy, wanting desperately to slam the door on these interlopers, but caught by the incredibly strong version of the transferred scent he had been smelling since Dwalin arrived. These two were nearly coated in the scent from head to foot, though it did not belong to either of them. But Bilbo opened the door and allowed them entry as they removed their cloaks and weapons and shoved them at him.

The two dwarfs were tugged into the dining room by Dwalin, and Bilbo heard them talking about others coming and fitting into the room. “How many more are there?”

The dwarfs continued rearranging his furniture and ignored his question as the doorbell rang once more, vigorously. Bilbo laid down the cloaks and gear in the hallway and strode angrily to the door, practically vibrating with nerves. He could hear many heartbeats outside, but was too overwhelmed with everything to distinguish anything specific.

Bilbo pulled the door open and a pile of dwarfs fell across the threshold and into Bag End’s front hall. They groaned in agony as Bilbo stared in disbelief at this comic sight. Then he saw a towering figure still on the stoop and rolled his eyes as the figure bent down, revealing the grey beard and hat, leaning on the wooden staff. “Gandalf,” Bilbo sighed, everything becoming clear. These were the others the wizard had spoken of, the ones who wanted him to join on their adventure. And if Gandalf’s actions with Bilbo were any indication, the dwarfs had no idea Bilbo didn’t know what was going on.

The dwarfs picked themselves up and made their way into the dining room, none of them bothering with introductions. Bilbo stood back and watched as they emptied his front pantry and began eating. He listened to them talk to each other and to the towering wizard, thus learning their names. 

The one who seemed to have nice manners, at least compared to the rest of them, was Dori. The one with the hat, who told Bilbo the fattest dwarf ate cheese by the block and didn’t need a cheese knife, was named Bofur, and the one he talked about was Bombur. The one who didn’t speak in Common at all that Bilbo heard and who had an axe (of all things!) embedded in his skull, was called Bifur. The one who was hard of hearing and carried an ear trumpet was Oin and the one with the thick red hair and beard was Gloin. The one with his hair in elaborate tri-point braids up and down was named Nori. One was yet to arrive. And the quiet spoken one in the grey sweater who felt so soothing to Bilbo, so familiar, so calming, was Ori.

After a few moments of thought, Bilbo realized why Ori felt so familiar. He was a Guide. He felt similar to the hobbits but not quite the same. And as he watched the dwarfs eat and make a complete mess of his dining room, he realized that the one with the hat, Bofur, felt like a muted version of that. Possibly he was a weak Guide. Or maybe latent but close to online.

And as he extended all of his senses to encompass his guests, he got an echo back on the spirit zone from the tri-point one, Nori and the fattest one, Bombur, and an echo that came and went from and felt partly broken from the one with the axe in his skull, Bifur. They were all Sentinels. And there were several others in the group who felt very close to coming online: two as Sentinels and one other as a Guide. Bilbo shook his head in exasperation. No wonder he was feeling so threatened and yet welcoming of this group. They were like him and yet not. 

All of them carried some of that scent he loved so much, though none so strongly as Fili and Kili. But the scent belonged to none of them directly. The dwarfs began to toss his mother’s hundred year old plates and dishes throughout the smial, worrying Bilbo greatly, though he could see that they were very controlled and being careful, even if it didn’t appear that way. 

They sang a mocking tavern song, inserting  _ his  _ name in the chorus and Bilbo couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or insulted. He had allowed this rowdy group into his home, and fed them, giving them hearth room and ale and wine. He hoped this was just a dwarven way of bonding with the host and not them being mean, manners being different across species, as he knew from his books. 

As the song went on, Bilbo became more and more agitated. He was sure the dwarfs and wizard thought he was fretting over the plates but he wasn’t. It was the feeling that had been coming and going all day, the nervous anticipation that had made the afternoon so odd. 

By the time the song ended with his table piled high with all of the dishes, cleaned and stacked, Bilbo felt like he was going to shatter, his nerves were stretched so tight. And then a series of loud knocks echoed through the smial from the front door.

Gandalf turned his head. “He is here.”


	4. A Journey Through the Shire

**Habkel**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Hours before Dwalin rang the bell at Bag End, Thorin Oakenshield approached the Shire from the north. He had spent the night before camped just outside the bounds and when the sun rose, so did he, entering the hobbit lands and following the trail marked on the map which he had received by raven the night before from Gandalf the Grey. The note accompanying the map explained that the route was not direct due to the fields and swamplands and other hazards of the Shire.

Thorin wanted to get as early a start as possible due to this winding path to the home of the burglar the wizard had found for their quest.  These halflings were annoying; even their homeland was soft and ridiculous. How the wizard expected one of them to be of any help against a dragon was something Thorin couldn’t comprehend.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, Thorin rode his pony south and east following the road and marked route on the map. His emotions were disturbed and he wished he had someone to talk to. Just as he reached the first turning toward the east and after passing through a hobbit village, filled with the creatures out and about at some sort of market, Thorin’s spirit animal joined him on the road. His animal was a beautiful chestnut mustang with white socks, whom he named Habkel. 

Sometimes Thorin felt embarrassed at naming his companion such a thing but it was what his horse meant to him, felt like to him.  _ Ultimate freedom _ . His people understood the name. His spirit animal represented his inner self, free from the burden of his place in the line of Durin, free from his worries about his family and his people and their plight, free from his duties in the towns of men and the mountains of his people, free from war and orcs, free from the madness of his grandfather and father. They all understood and yet Thorin could not shake his sense of guilt for the call he felt to that name.

But once named, Habkel would answer to nothing else. He was Habkel. That is what and who he was and Thorin was stuck with his decision.

On this journey, Habkel had joined him quite often. It was sometimes odd to be riding a pony and speaking to a horse that rose alongside, riderless. He had often wished he could climb atop his spirit animal and ride like the wind but he knew it would be an incredibly foolish and dangerous thing to try. 

Habkel could feel solid and remain so for some time but when he needed to be intangible, it happened without warning. Thorin had discovered this the hard way very early on in his time as a Guide. He had mounted his horse companion and they were lightly walking around, getting used to the sensation, when suddenly, Thorin was sitting in the dirt looking up at the belly of his horse. He had fallen right through. He was just thankful they had been moving so slowly; such a thing happening at even a trot, let alone a gallop, could have thrown him hard to the ground and killed him, or at least severely injured him. He was also glad he had been alone with Habkel at the time or he would have never lived it down.

Nonetheless, Thorin enjoyed his time riding next to Habkel, no matter how silly it sometimes felt or looked. And now, he truly was happy to have a companion along for his journey. He needed to vent his feelings about the recent developments among the other dwarf lords and his worries about the upcoming meeting with the so-called “hobbit burglar.” 

Thorin always addressed Habkel in his native tongue, Khudzul, the secret language of the dwarfs, though his spirit animal understood Common perfectly well. But it gave Thorin a chance to use his sacred language and was also a way to keep his thoughts and conversations private from non-dwarrows. Except the wizard. Blasted, meddling old man.

“It is so difficult, Habkel. How can I tell my company we are alone? The others will not help us, they refuse. They are cowards! Weak! They fear the dragon, like the elves. No better than leaf eaters, the other dwarf lords. Even Dain. Maybe especially Dain.”

Habkel tossed his head and turned it toward the Guide, blinking slowly.

“He had the utter gall to tell me to send a raven if the dragon is dead or we have recovered the King’s Jewel. Then he’ll come with his army to Erebor. He won’t do the work, no, he’ll just come for his share of the treasure. Carrion crow. All of them. Carrion. The mountain belongs to us! We built Erebor, my family and my people. We hewed the city and mines from the mountain itself. If they can’t be bothered to help, they can rot! We will reclaim our home, our gold, our mountain. And the Arkenstone, into the bargain. Then they’ll remember their pledges and come running. But it is ours, not theirs. It is my people’s treasure.”

The horse lowered his head in a nod, giving a soft whinny, as they moved along the road.

“We have wandered the wilderness for decades, looking for a home, and slaved in the towns of Men for a fraction of what our skills are worth, and tried to eke out a living in the dying Blue Mountains. With no help or succor from our so called kin. Twelve came at my call. Twelve! Miners, and toy makers, and merchants, and cooks! A scribe! We go to face a dragon and the only ones with any loyalty, honor, or a willing heart are not warriors for the most part. Several have never seen any type of combat against more than a wolf or deer! Hunting!”

Habkel snorted and pranced for a few steps before stomping one hoof hard on the ground.

“All right, yes.  At least three of them are Sentinels. Not bonded, any of them, though. And one of them, well, Bifur is - he is honorable. He and his family are not even from Erebor. Their ancestors are from the Blue Mountains. And yet, he comes at my call and brings his kin with him, simply because I arranged for healing for him after Azanulbizar, and kept him steady in his senses after the axe hit. He feels indebted, I know. But his senses aren’t exactly steady. He doesn’t zone much, thanks to his proximity to his brother, Bofur, a Guide. Not  _ his _ Guide, but still, a steadying influence. But his lack of the ability to speak in Common, or indeed in a modern dialect of Khuzdul, is going to be an issue. I can tell. Bifur  _ does _ know Iglishmek, as do most all of the company and that will help, yes, Habkel, I agree with that.”

Habkel reared up and kicked out with his hind legs, then hopped forward, kicking with his front legs.

Thorin nodded as he turned his pony to the east and entered a forest. “Yes, he has experience as a warrior. You only need to look at him to see that. The axe makes it perfectly clear to even the stupidest that he has seen battle.”

Thorin suddenly shivered, at first attributing it to the shade of the trees overhead. But after a few moments, he realized his Guide Gifts were reaching out and his shields were wavering and stretching. He pulled his pony to a stop at the side of the road and reached out a hand for Habkel. The horse moved in close and allowed the Guide to lay his hand on his withers. Thorin wrestled with his shields and pulled them back around himself tighter. 

After almost ten minutes, Thorin dropped his hand from Habkel’s side and opened his eyes, urging his pony to start moving again. “That was odd. I haven't had that much trouble with my shields in decades, since just after Azanulbizar and the losses there, Habkel. There is something about this blasted, soft land making me edgy. I don’t like it. What good will a halfling be as a burglar. I’d wager he’s soft in the middle and never held a weapon in his whole soft life. Tharkun is getting senile. A halfling. Ridiculous.”

Habkel snorted several times and nudged Thorin in the side with his head.

“You don’t agree? Look at these halflings we’ve passed, their beardless faces and plump bellies, their soft lives. They aren’t warriors. They couldn’t hold off a fox from their fields, never mind face a dragon! It is all nonsense. And  _ if _ the halfling agrees to the contract, he won’t be invested in our quest beyond his desire for the treasure of my people. He’ll have no honor, no loyalty but to himself, and his heart will want the gold and gems, not a home. My people need a home, where we can be secure against the threats of this world and where we can prosper, not eke out a miserable existence, barely having enough food for our children.”

Habkel rubbed his head against Thorin’s arm in a sympathetic motion, his eyes wide open and glittering with sorrow.

“We will prevail, Habkel. There is no other choice, my friend.”

The horse nodded his head firmly and picked up the pace. For hours, Thorin and Habkel and the pony followed the path marked by Gandalf, heading east through the forest and then bearing south through several towns and across a river, before heading west through another forest and then north through several more towns, one quite large and then almost directly east before turning north and crossing another river. 

The sun had crossed the sky and set behind the western mountains long before Thorin was in sight of this river. But by his interpretation of his map, he thought he was finally nearly there. He entered another town and on the outskirts there was a hobbit with a lantern, the first hobbit he had seen in the hours since the sun had set. 

It was a male hobbit, Thorin believed. It was beardless and round bellied like all the rest, dressed in finery with no armor or weapons in sight. It could be female but Thorin was fairly sure that halfling females wore skirts like the females of the race of Man.

The hobbit came to a stop and looked up at the dwarf on his pony. “How’de do, sir. You’re an odd one fer these parts, tell you sure. Beard and pony riding. Do you need somethin’, or yer pony? Only it’s quite late, ya see.”

“ _ Karatal, _ ” Thorin mumbled to his equine companion. He had scanned the halfling and sensed no danger from him, just light thoughts and simple joy that comes from a bottle of ale.

“Carrots? Afraid I haven’t any carrots on me. Does your pony like carrots, then?”

Thorin snorted. “I’m looking for a house.”

“Oh, no we haven’t any empty houses around here. But if you take this road up and follow it down Bagshot Row and around Underhill and into Overhill, you’ll see a public house. Just the place for ya this late, sir.”

Thorin leaned down, trying to understand the accent of the Common this hobbit spoke. “Bag Row? Yes, I’m looking for Bag Row.”

“Bagshot Row, yes, just follow it along, ya can’t miss it. Good ale, there, that house has.”

“My thanks.”

The hobbit tipped his head, “Enjoy it, sir, ya surely will and all. A good night to ya.” 

And with that the hobbit turned and stumbled up a small side road that led up a hill, while Thorin continued down the lane looking for the sign the wizard had said would be obvious. He wandered through the town, among the little round doors for over an hour, passing houses and a tavern where the road ended but seeing no sign of the wizard's mark. Then he thought back. Did the halfling say something about going over the hill? 

Thorin turned his pony around and backtracked to the tallest hill and circled around behind it, searching for a door. And at last, after an incredibly long, tiring day, he saw it, the rune Gandalf had left on the door. He slid down from the pony and settled his legs before tying it to a fence post.

Thorin opened the garden gate and climbed the steps to the round green door. He heard a song trailing off as he approached and the welcome sound of dwarrow laughter. Smiling lightly to himself, he raised his hand and knocked firmly on the door.

* * *

**Thorin's Roundabout Journey Through the Shire and Hobbiton  
**

 

** **

** **


	5. A Guide and a Sentinel Meet

**Chapter Five**

****

Bilbo walked into the hallway and Gandalf opened the door. On the stoop he saw yet another dwarf, dark-haired, with a short beard but long hair with several braids. Bilbo stared at him, the nerves he had been feeling on and off all day, gone as if they never existed. He was as calm as if he were in the spirit zone with only Zirandas.

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo inhaled the scents he had come to associate with dwarfs - pony, leather, iron, smoke - but underlying it all in this dwarf is the scent the others all carried to one extent or another, but which belonged to none of them. The scent that drew Bilbo to it, the one he couldn’t identify but which was so overwhelmingly wonderful. It was the scent of  _ this  _ dwarf. He radiated it from every pore. It wasn’t transfer from somewhere or someone else this time. It was  _ him _ . 

Bilbo just wanted to bury his head in this dwarf’s neck and breathe it in, forever. It confused him. He had never had a feeling like this before. This dwarf drew him like no one else ever had.  The darkness of his hair, shimmering in the candlelight, the sound of his voice as he berated Gandalf for his directions to Bag End, that  _ scent _ ! 

Bilbo shook his head. He was being ridiculous. He was just tired and hungry after a long day filled with emotional highs and lows, and this was just him being overwhelmed. 

Thorin shivered deep within himself as soon as the door swung open to the halfling’s home. He pushed the sensation away and taunted Gandalf about his horrible map and directions. But his shields flared out and filled the room. Thorin internally yanked on them even as he glanced about, not letting the wizard know of the strange weakness afflicting him here in this halfling land. Who knew what the wizard would make of the matter? He might even turn away from the quest, and Thorin could not risk losing whatever the man might offer to assist them in re-taking their home.

The shield refused to be reined in and for the moment Thorin decided to leave it be. He couldn’t give it his full attention without being obvious and he couldn't do that, so he ignored it until he could spare the time.

He turned to the wizard as he removed his cloak and entered the house fully. “Gandalf. I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. Wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”

Shaking himself from his brief lapse in attention, Bilbo hurried forward. While he loved the sound of the deep rumble as it berated and teased the wizard, the dwarf was mistaken in his words and Bilbo had to let him know. Bag End might be the home of a not quite respectable Sentinel hobbit but Bilbo kept it in excellent condition, when it wasn’t being invaded by a dozen dwarfs. “Mark? There’s no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!”

Gandalf coughed lightly and ducked his head, “There is a mark; I put it there myself. Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.” The wizard pointed to the dwarf.

Thorin stepped forward and looked over the being before him, trying to ignore the actions of his Gifts and the shields, “So, this is the Hobbit. Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?”

Bilbo was confused and becoming increasingly overwhelmed by his senses. This close the scent made him want to keen in pleasure but he pushed the feeling away to concentrate on the beautiful dwarf ( _ stop it,  _ **_beards_ ** _ are  _ **_not_ ** _ attractive! _ ) and what he was saying, lest he miss something important. Which he thinks he might have, fighting? What? “Beg pardon?”

Thorin sneered as he circled the halfling, not at all impressed by the look of him, “Axe or sword? What’s your weapon of choice?”

Bilbo didn’t understand. As a Sentinel, when he fought, he could use anything as a weapon. Were dwarf Sentinels different? Did they specialize? But he wanted to have this dwarf like him, he needed it, like he needed to breathe; he didn’t know why he wanted to impress him but he truly did. “Well, I have some skill at Conkers, if you must know, but I fail to see why that’s relevant.” 

For Bilbo, this should have made everything clear. Conkers was a game of skill and precision and his senses assured he made his shot every time. After he’d come online, no other hobbit would play with him, so he simply practiced on his own in his yard or the woods.

Thorin came to a stop in front of the halfling. No skill at weapons and Gandalf wanted him to fight a dragon? Thorin knew he had been right. Conkers? What kind of idiot was he standing before? And why wouldn’t his shield behave itself! “Thought as much,” he turned his head to smirk at the company behind him, watching him inspect their host.  “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.” 

The other dwarves laughed and Thorin relaxed a bit as he realized none of them knew his internal struggles.

Bilbo stiffened in hurt, biting his lip. He didn’t understand anything of what was going on and he was afraid of what he was feeling and what was happening to him. He wanted these dwarfs to go away and leave him alone but he never wanted this new one, Thorin, to leave.

And at that moment, Bilbo heard Thorin’s stomach growl, though he doubted most of the others could hear it. He decided to be a good host and scrounge up what he could from his pantry that the dwarfs hadn’t eaten or ruined (his blue cheese, honestly! It was supposed to have the blue spots. It was  _ blue cheese _ !). 

After a bit of hunting and thinking, Bilbo put together a fairly simple soup and got him a mug of ale to go with it. By the time it was heated, Thorin was seated at the head of the table and as soon as the soup was before him, he dug into it like he was starving. And Bilbo feared that he was.

Bilbo watched Thorin eat, wanting to berate the dwarfs when they interrupted his meal with their questions. Bilbo watched as he ate, his throat moving as he swallowed, the muscles clenching and moving with grace and power. The hobbit reveled in the pleasure the dwarf was getting in the simple meal, glad he could care for him, needing him to be safe and fed and happy, which he still didn’t understand. He tried to be a good hobbit and that meant a good host, so wanting his dwarf ( **_the_ ** dwarf!) to be well fed and happy was understandable, but the extent of the  _ need _ Bilbo felt was unsettling him.

Thorin explained to his kin they were on their own. The other dwarf kingdoms had abandoned them. As he listened to the wizard and the others explain the quest to the halfling, Thorin again turned his attention briefly to his shields, trying to pull them back to where they should be and again they fought him and almost pulled on their own to stay extended. It was getting to be a concern. He was surprised the others had not noticed, at least Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, Ori and Nori, the other Gifted among the company. And if he didn’t get control soon, they were sure to. At the moment, as he glanced at them all, they were distracted by the thoughts of the dragon and the quest. They were arguing and fighting about their thoughts on the matter. Thorin couldn’t have that. They needed to be united. They were only thirteen! They couldn't have this infighting. 

The dwarf king stood and left his shields be as he pushed his Voice out over the bedlam, “ **_Shazara!_ ** ” Everyone quieted and settled back into their seats as Thorin continued, “If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too? Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look east to the Mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?  _ Du Bekâr! Du Bekâr _ !”

Bilbo listened to the dark-haired dwarf as he spoke of his worries to the others. He allowed himself to sink into the sound of the rumbling voice, letting it wash over him and fill his ears with its tones. He simply basked in the presence, losing the will to protest or worry over his unusual reactions. He couldn’t explain them or stop them, so he just gave up trying. It wasn’t something he would normally do but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt drawn to Thorin, and he couldn't stop it, and the vast majority of him didn’t want to stop it. He wanted to remain by his side for all time, listening to that voice, smelling that scent, looking at the lovely hair and muscles and eyes.

Bilbo sank deeper into the feelings he was getting without knowing why and listened as Gandalf explained about the key and a secret entrance. He was snapped out of it, a bit, at least enough to rejoin the conversation, when he heard them talk about needing to get into the mountain with stealth, their need of a burglar. He wondered which one of them it was.

“Me? No, no, no, no, no. I’m not a burglar; I’ve never stolen a thing in my life.” Bilbo was appalled. Just because he had heightened senses didn’t mean he used them for breaking the law! He protected his people. He didn’t  _ hurt  _ them! Were dwarf Sentinels  _ really  _ so different? Did they focus only on themselves and not their neighbors, their friends, their families? Was that why everyone said dwarfs were obsessed with gold? Did dwarf Sentinels only steal gold and gems so they could have it?

Bilbo listened to them argue over him being a burglar. He certainly wasn’t one. He didn’t like this, why were they all here? They thought he was a burglar? They were agreeing, they were saying he wasn’t.

Then Bilbo shuddered in pain as Gandalf shouted; his hearing was overwhelmed, being so open due to wanting to bask in Thorin’s voice. “Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is.”

Thorin listened to Gandalf and agreed with some of his ideas but he still didn’t like it. But they needed this halfling. So he agreed with the wizard. “Give him the contract.”

While the halfling wandered into the hallway, obviously wanting better light to read by, Thorin leaned over to the wizard, again internally tugging on his shields, “I cannot guarantee his safety,” he murmured.

The wizard nodded slightly, “Understood.”

Thorin leaned closer still, “Nor will I be responsible for his fate.”

Gandalf’s lips thinned and he frowned before he replied, “Agreed.”

Thorin nodded sharply and sat back down, focusing inward and using all of his strength on his shields, finally pulling them back into himself.

Bilbo read over the contract, unable to believe he was even considering this mad idea but compelled to do what Thorin needed of him. He mumbled to himself, reading aloud, “Terms: Cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding one fourteenth of total profit, if any. Seems fair. Eh, Present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof, including but not limited to lacerations ... evisceration … incineration?”

The hobbit turned to the dining room at the last word, his face incredulous. What kind of contract was this? 

The dwarf with the odd hat, Bofur, answered him, “Oh, aye, he’ll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye.”

Bilbo wanted to laugh but suddenly he felt the nerves he had been feeling before Thorin’s arrival once again, except multiplied by a hundredfold. He felt sick, hot, and his senses were suddenly completely out of his control. He couldn’t hear. He needed to hear. He needed to hear Thorin. He couldn’t smell that scent, only the parchment of the contract in his hands.  _ Thorin _ ! No, he couldn’t, he needed, please, bring it back, bring it back! His senses overwhelmed him and his mind was unable to cope and Bilbo fell to the floor, unconscious.

Thorin breathed a silent sigh of relief as his shields settled into their normal spaces surrounding him only to jerk around when he heard the halfling begin to hyperventilate. He looked at him and reached out as he suddenly fell to the ground. 

Thorin hurried into the hall and knelt down next to the fragile thing, fainting at the thought of a dragon! Gandalf was truly mad. He extended his empathy to attempt to calm the halfling and bring him back to consciousness. But before he could even attempt it, he let out a loud gasp as he felt shields of a different sort around the fallen half - the fallen  _ Sentinel _ . Thorin had obviously been shielding him since his arrival and his abrupt retraction of his shields had unbalanced the obviously unbonded Sentinel enough to lead to this: not unusual. If Thorin had known, he never would have worked on his shielding so harshly.

Thorin gestured for Oin to come closer from where he had been hovering, waiting for the king’s assessment, whether it was fear as they all thought, or some illness. When the healer knelt beside his king, the dark-haired dwarf murmured to his healer, right into his trumpet, “Care for him as you would a sense overcome dwarf.”

Oin’s eyes widened and he went to work, grabbing a nearby blanket and covering the fallen host while Thorin rose to his feet and stalked to the wizard in anger. “Tharkun!”

The other dwarves huddled around, many looking at their host in disdain, except for the sentinels who had heard what Thorin had said to Oin. “This was dangerous! I am a powerful Guide! You know that! And you bring me here, to the home of a strange, unbonded Sentinel of another race and don’t tell me he is a Sentinel. My Guide shields had enveloped him when I arrived and when I pulled them back,” he gestured behind him, “he was overwhelmed at once! He could have zoned! He could be in a fatal zone or his senses could shut down completely!”

The wizard’s eyes were wide and he sputtered, “Bilbo? A Sentinel? There hasn’t been a hobbit come online as a Sentinel since before Erebor fell. I had no idea.”

Thorin grunted his disbelief and turned his back on the grey wizard. “Clear off, all of you,” he told his Company. “He needs quiet when he comes to, find places to sleep in this house and set up, I’ll let you know when to return. Unless you can be completely quiet and still, he could still die. I need to reach for him and hope he isn’t already lost.”

The dwarrow nodded as one and Dwalin and Balin slipped off to explore the rest of Bag End, while Fili and Kili left to get the bed rolls from their horses and Gloin went to free their ponies into a field for the night. The others sat back and watched, sending Thorin good feelings and peace, to assist him in helping the overwhelmed Sentinel.

Thorin knelt beside Bilbo and lay his hand on the Sentinel’s chest, between his suspenders, on his shirt. He began to extend his shields toward him when Habkel appeared and knelt beside him, nudging Bilbo with his nose. As soon as the spirit horse touched the skin of the hobbit, Bilbo’s eyes opened and he gasped, “Please!”

Thorin didn’t notice, his attention totally inward, extending the shields he had fought to retract minutes earlier. 

Bilbo looked up and saw the horse from the spirit zone garden with Zirandas sitting calmly on his back. The horse nudged him and gave a small puff of breath on Bilbo’s face. He turned his head away and saw Thorin kneeling beside him. And it all became clear to Bilbo. His jittery nerves all day as Thorin wandered near and far through the Shire. His meeting with another in the garden for the first time. His obsession with Thorin since he arrived. Somehow, some way, Bilbo had a Guide that was just for him, a dwarf Guide, this dwarf Guide, Thorin Oakenshield.  _ His! _

Bilbo reached a hand to the bearded face close above him and laid it flat, causing Thorin’s eyes to fly open. “Guide,” he murmured.

Thorin stared down at the Sentinel lying flat on his back in shock. His hand moved from Bilbo’s chest to his beardless face. His One, his Sentinel was here. “Sentinel.”

The others who had left to perform chores arrived back just in time to witness the flaring silvery light around the pair on the floor as the bond sparked into being. Gandalf shook his head in wonder as the entire company had the same thought in their minds. What would this mean for the quest and the retaking of Erebor?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this story. I have vague ideas for more but not anytime soon. DO NOT ASK OR BUG ME ABOUT A SEQUEL! Doing so makes it less likely to happen. I hope you enjoyed the foray into Middle Earth.


End file.
